


neon bloodstream (you're flowing through my veins)

by Suicix



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clubbing, Fencer Jackson Wang, First Meetings, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, One Night Stands, Pre-Relationship, Writer Park Jinyoung | Jr.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suicix/pseuds/Suicix
Summary: This is seeing the very barest bones of someone, not even a real skeleton. Seeing an idea of them, whoever they might want to be that night. A mere outline. It’s enough for Jinyoung. From just this, from just a rough sketch of somebody, he should be inspired. He should have enough he can create a character of his own with, enough he can use to write their story – what he thinks their story ought to be.





	neon bloodstream (you're flowing through my veins)

**Author's Note:**

> personally, i really really like this fic a lot. jinyoung's level of pretentiousness is totally through the roof here and it's absolutely one hundred percent on purpose.
> 
> a translation of this fic into russian is available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7289958) \- thank you so much to FoxyWoxy5 for taking the time to translate!

Jinyoung can’t even remember the last time he set foot in a place like this. As a student, probably: on whichever night of the week they sold drinks the cheapest, as long as he didn’t have a class the next morning. Other people would have gone out regardless, he knows, but not Jinyoung. Never serious, sensible Jinyoung, who everyone expected so much of. Of course not. The most he ever did was watch his favourite drama on his old iPod during class back when he was in school, or the one time he skipped out on a test to go to a PC bang instead. Never anything more than that.

(He wants to laugh, though, because what part of being a writer is _sensible?_ He can never be completely sure how his work will be received, if he’ll even be able to make anything off of some of it. His wrist aches, and then he tries writing with his left hand. He gets to the point where he has to type his words up, and both his hands hurt. He puts his blood into this, his sweat, his tears, and what does he get in return? Not enough. Nowhere near enough.)

And now his writing’s brought him here: a mediocre nightclub in the centre of the city, to the smell of sweat and a sticky floor. It’s research, is what it is. Jinyoung would never admit it, not even to himself, but he’s – stuck. Blocked. He thinks meeting someone new would solve it, even if what happens in clubs like these isn’t exactly meeting, not properly. No, it’s seeing the very barest bones of someone, not even a real skeleton. Seeing an idea of them, whoever they might want to be that night. A mere outline.

Still, it’s enough for Jinyoung. From just that, from just a rough sketch of somebody, he should be inspired. He should have enough he can create a character of his own with, enough he can use to write their story – what he thinks their story ought to be.

He takes a sip of his drink, the thump of the music so loud that his head throbs with the beat, and vaguely wonders why he doesn’t try finding someone in a café instead – then laughs at himself. He isn’t _that_ idealistic. Not anymore. A café is getting to know someone slowly, is long afternoons and soft piano music playing over the speakers. It isn’t meet-drink-dance-fuck, now tell me all your secrets because we’ll never see each other again, the ones that are only safe with a stranger.

Not like here.

He scans his surroundings, keeping an eye out for anyone interesting, anyone who might have a story worth telling. There are people moving on the dancefloor, different interpretations of the same pounding beat. There are people around the bar, ordering whatever will get them out of their minds the fastest, drinking to whatever with their friends.

And then there are eyes on Jinyoung. He can feel it, someone looking at him from across the bar. Jinyoung looks back.

The man’s alone, though he doesn’t look like the kind of person who’d be on his own here. Coming here alone is for people like Jinyoung. Not this man, who Jinyoung can imagine at the centre of a circle of friends, the member of the group who brings everyone else together, the one who knows everyone. That isn’t usually the kind of character Jinyoung writes about (isn’t usually the kind of person he takes home), but there’s nothing wrong with trying something new. The fact that Jinyoung likes what he can see of the man’s face certainly doesn’t hurt, either.

They lock eyes. Jinyoung raises an eyebrow. The man’s gone from his seat soon enough, reappearing on the other side of the bar, beside Jinyoung.

“Hey,” he says, and _OK,_ that’s just a regular, generic greeting, but part of Jinyoung can imagine some ridiculous pick up line spouting from this man’s mouth, so he counts himself lucky. “Am I paying for my next drink, or are you?”

Oh, _bold._ This time, Jinyoung raises both his eyebrows.

“I’m a starving artist,” he says, making his voice as sharp and delicate as is simultaneously possible. “You don’t think you should be buying _me_ a drink?”

“Well, how was I to know that?” Jinyoung had meant it dryly, but the man actually seems offended. “Besides, maybe I just misspoke. Korean’s a tough language to learn, you know.” Now that Jinyoung thinks about it, the man’s accent is obvious. Chinese, it sounds like.

“I’ll give you that,” Jinyoung says, because sometimes, even as a native speaker, he finds himself at war with words. That’s because he’s trying to create something, though: trying to make worlds and souls and stories. “How about _you_ give _me_ a name, though?”

“I’m Jackson.” Huh – an English name. Interesting. “And you?”

“Jinyoung.” Jinyoung picks up his drink, downs the last of it, and then waves the empty glass at Jackson. “A drink, then?”

“Fine.” Jackson takes out his wallet. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me,” Jinyoung says. He wants to know what kind of impression he’s making. This should be telling.

Jackson orders. Jinyoung purposely doesn’t listen, focusing his attention on the thud of the bass instead: he’ll let it be a surprise.

A minute or so later, the bartender presents them with a tray of shots that are so bright they look radioactive, two for each of them. Red, yellow, green, blue. Jinyoung wants to laugh and almost does. This, more than anything, reminds him of being a student. He can’t decide whether Jackson’s being ironic with this or not.

“I almost went for something sophisticated,” Jackson starts to explain, “but then I decided you’d think I was trying too hard. So.” He picks up one of the shots – toxic-looking lime green – and wrinkles his nose at it. “Hey, would you believe it if I told you I’d prefer to drink wine?”

“I mean, yes,” Jinyoung tells him. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Specifically, though.” Jackson frowns harder at the shot. “Should I have got wine?”

“No, no. Wine has its time and place, and it isn’t here and now.” If Jinyoung wanted wine, he’d be drinking himself through a cheap bottle at home while he stared at either a blank page of a notebook or a cursor flashing on a wordless screen. He wouldn’t be here, listening to whatever repetitive remix this is instead of the ceaseless dripping of the leaky tap in the otherwise empty silence of his apartment. He’d be alone – he wouldn’t even need to look for someone like Jackson. Or someone not like Jackson. Anyone.

Jinyoung chooses his own shot: the blue one, the same colour as the ocean and the sky are in too-perfect photos of paradise. Tropical, vibrant, electric.

“I think you’re right.” Jackson lifts his glass. “It’s not the time for wine. Let’s drink to that?”

They knock back the shots, strong and sweet – maybe a little too much of both. Jinyoung fights not to make a face. Jackson’s trying not to as well, Jinyoung can tell, but he grimaces before setting his glass down.

“Why did you order these if that was going to be your reaction?” Jinyoung asks, grinning a little.

“Nostalgia, I guess. Makes me think of when I was a student, you know? This whole place does.”

Jinyoung nods, understanding. That’s what those shots represent to him: doing something simply because it looked bright and exciting, doing something just to be seen doing it. That time of his life when he thought that that was what being an adult meant, when he thought it was about being able to do what he wanted and nothing else.

It’s not about that, though. It’s about being part of a machine, doing what’s expected of you even more than when you were a child. Jinyoung would never say that his time at school or college was the best time of his life, even if everybody acted like it should be. He misses the simple structure those days gave him, but that’s it. He doesn’t miss the hierarchy, being nothing to everyone outside of the few people he spoke to and his teachers. He thought there’d be some kind of poetic justice served to the students for whom it probably _was_ the best days of their life, but he’s just as lost as they must be.

Maybe that’s who Jackson is, who he should be when he’s committed to paper and to Jinyoung’s memory. The kind of person who spent those years as a star – as the centre of the school’s universe – only to be propelled into an uncaring, unforgiving future. The kind of person who wants to stand out and fit in all at once. It’d be a departure from Jinyoung’s usual characters, and a challenge to get into someone like that’s head, but maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe not experimenting – not trying to stretch himself – is why he’s been so bored.

“Again?” Jackson’s voice breaks through Jinyoung’s thoughts, and Jinyoung blinks. Jackson’s gesturing down at the tray, at the remaining shots.

Of the two that are left, Jinyoung goes for the yellow one. He wants to see Jackson’s mouth stained with the red, as artificial a colour as it is. Wants to do more than that: wants to taste it for himself, wants to lick it away, wants to let red and yellow meld into glowing amber in their mouths. Jackson takes the red one, and once more, they drink.

This time, it isn’t to anything: they don’t even let the glasses clink together. Still, their fingers brush as they put the glasses back down on the tray, the start of something that might turn electric buzzing in Jinyoung’s skin. They both look up, holding each other’s gaze even after the brief skin to skin contact’s over.

“If I asked you to dance,” Jackson says, glancing over at the dancefloor and then back at Jinyoung, “would you?”

“With you?” Jinyoung raises an eyebrow. It’s a rhetorical question, but Jackson nods in answer all the same. “I think I might.”

It means yes, of course. Jinyoung would never give a more direct answer than that. He holds out a hand, though, and lets Jackson take it, lets Jackson pull him over to where it’s louder, where it’s somehow brighter and darker all at once.

Above them, lights are flashing, beams of colour blinking down onto the dancefloor. Red, yellow, green, blue. Just like the shots. Something about it is probably symbolic, somehow, but for once, Jinyoung decides not to think about it. Yet. He’ll save it for later, when there’s a pen in his hand and paper in front of him and he’s recounting this very second in his mind. For now, he’ll let himself get lost, in the moment and in Jackson.

Their hands are still joined, but if Jackson doesn’t make any moves towards separating them, then Jinyoung won’t, either. He’ll let Jackson take the lead for now, just to see what he does. Just to get more of a sense of who he is. They move together, Jinyoung matching Jackson’s pace, mirroring whatever he does. Leaning in when Jackson leans in, meeting his eyes when he looks at Jinyoung, smirking back when Jackson does. They drop each other’s hands, but they’ve stepped into each other’s space some more: occasionally, their bodies touch. More electricity building between them, static where they brush against each other.

One song turns into another turns into another, the transition between beats slick and easy. They’re so close to each other now, and the heat of Jackson’s body is so enticing. It feels like it shouldn’t be possible to get closer, but Jinyoung wants it, needs it, needs to touch even more. Needs to press their mouths together and taste that red, needs to see who Jackson is, who he could be.

Jinyoung decides to be the one to chance it, even though he’s let Jackson lead things up to now. He settles a hand on Jackson’s shoulder, keeping the touch light, letting his hand slide down to Jackson’s upper arm as he gets close enough that their mouths can meet.

It doesn’t even take a second for Jackson to start kissing back. It’s like he’s been waiting for it, like it’s all he’s been wanting this whole time. The two shots aren’t enough to get drunk on, but Jinyoung swears he could end up drunk on this, nothing but the press of Jackson’s lips on his and the way Jackson’s fingers tangle in his hair. It isn’t even a deep kiss, not yet, and yet it’s already intoxicating. It feels like Jackson thinks he’s got something to prove, though, like he’s trying to show Jinyoung just how good he can make it, just how good it might be if they do more than this.

Jinyoung lets his other hand rest on Jackson’s side, closing it around his hip, squeezing. The touch is enough that Jackson moans, his lips parting for Jinyoung, and _fuck,_ he’s responsive. Jinyoung’s going to have a lot of fun with that, he can tell.

(That’s what this should be about, after all. Fun. He should be out here to have a couple of drinks and to get off with someone and nothing more, not for any reasons related to his writing. He shouldn’t be thinking about whoever he ends up with like they’re a character he’ll probably make awful things happen to. He shouldn’t be here because of writer’s block. He is, though. It’s why he’s got those two neon shots in his veins alongside his first drink, why he’s kissing Jackson. Why he’s thinking about more than this, more skin and more heat and taking Jackson apart under his hands. For once, he might be just a little bit grateful that he hasn’t been able to write as much as he’d like to. Just a bit.)

They’re still kissing, their bodies even closer, grinding against each other, only letting it break for a moment’s breath before leaning back in for more. In that moment, Jackson’s eyes open – dark, deep, liquid-looking. Jinyoung wants to drown in them, but he’ll settle for drowning in more kisses instead, one of his hands moving to wind around Jackson’s neck and cupping the back of his head. He considers suggesting that they could go to Jackson’s, but maybe that would be too much. Too revealing. He likes what he has here; he doesn’t need to have it rearranged by seeing how Jackson lives. No, he’ll take Jackson back to his place, as small and empty as it is. Jackson might not even live alone, and Jinyoung would definitely prefer to wake up in his own bed.

“I live nearby,” he finds himself saying after breaking the kiss, leaning in close to Jackson’s ear. “How do you feel about getting out of here?” He pulls back, so he can see Jackson’s reaction, and Jackson blinks at him, slow.

“I feel pretty good about that.” Jackson’s voice is low, and his tongue darts out to lick at his mouth like he knows Jinyoung’s watching. Jinyoung’s eyes follow the movement, his heart beating in time with the pulse of the music.

“Shall we, then?” Again, Jinyoung extends a hand for Jackson to take, and again, Jackson takes it. Now, though, Jinyoung’s the one to pull them through the crowd, towards the exit.

The music’s muted now that they’re out of the club. Jinyoung can still hear it, can practically feel the walls vibrating because of the bass, but any kind of quiet – even just in comparison to the noise of the club, because it’s never truly quiet in the heart of the city – is a relief. He wonders if it’s as much of a relief to Jackson. Probably not.

The walk back feels much longer than the usual fifteen or so minutes; Jinyoung’s anticipating it that much. The silence between them is much more noticeable now that there isn’t music playing and other people surrounding them. Now that they aren’t dancing, kissing, touching. Occasionally, they share a glance, Jackson’s eyes glittering in the darkness, in those brief moments when they pass under a streetlamp and they’re cast into the light.

They’re here. Into the building, and up the stairs to Jinyoung’s apartment. Jinyoung scrabbles around in his pocket for his key, desperate to get inside. Jackson’s watching him, and the moment they’re in the door and it’s been slammed shut behind them, Jinyoung has him against it, has his mouth on Jackson’s again.

Hands wander even more this time, gripping harder as the kiss deepens. Jinyoung had forgotten how easy it is, letting himself get lost in a stranger like this. He can’t help but wonder how often Jackson does it, if he likes the same things Jinyoung does, if he’d want what Jinyoung wants to give him. They pull away from each other slowly, like neither of them want to, like they’d be satisfied to just stay here in the hallway for the rest of the night, but – no. Jinyoung has other ideas, and he’s pretty sure that Jackson does, too.

“Can I fuck you?” Jinyoung asks, before Jackson can suggest anything else. “I–”

“Yeah.” Almost immediately, Jackson’s nodding, interrupting, looking at Jinyoung like there’s nothing he wants more. “Yeah, fuck. Your bedroom?”

Jinyoung leads them through. He doesn’t give Jackson much time to take a look at the room, just kisses him again, his hands reaching lower, down to Jackson’s ass: there’s a condom in Jackson’s back pocket. Jinyoung takes it, grabs some lube from his nightstand, switches the lamp on when he’s over there. He doesn’t want it to be too bright, but he’d still like to be able to see Jackson, to watch his face, his body. To watch him come undone at Jinyoung’s touch, his hair all messed up and sweat shining on his skin.

Their clothes end up on the floor, and Jackson’s back ends up against the mattress, Jinyoung’s fingers inside him, opening him up. His cock twitches against his stomach as Jinyoung presses deeper, so hard, leaking onto his skin. Jinyoung pulls his hand back, leaving Jackson empty, but not for long: he gets the condom on, moves in closer again, and gets Jackson’s legs into position so he can push inside.

The sound Jackson makes at that is – _fuck._ Loud, completely unrestrained. Like he’s holding nothing back. Jinyoung can’t help the smirk. He isn’t going to hold anything back either, then. He pins Jackson’s arms to the bed, and Jackson lets him, his biceps firm underneath Jinyoung’s hands. Jinyoung loves this, having someone’s strength completely at his mercy, being able to take them apart however he pleases. He likes to do it on paper, taking a character who seems tough and making them vulnerable, and he likes to do it in reality, just like now. He tightens his grip and fucks into Jackson just that bit harder, just that bit faster. They don’t talk – don’t know each other well enough to talk – but Jackson makes a lot of noise, gasping and cursing as the headboard knocks against the wall.

It’s good. Jinyoung manages to stop thinking about writing, manages to stop thinking about Jackson as a character, though he isn’t really thinking about him as a person, either. He focuses on the sex instead, because that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. Because that’s what’s tonight’s supposed to be about – what tonight _should_ be about, what it would be about if he were anyone else. Finding someone to have fun with, to make them feel good. Not turning them into someone they might not even be in his mind without them knowing for his own gain.

When Jinyoung’s this close, though, he can’t quite bring himself to care – doesn’t think he’d be able to, anyway. He comes, and then jerks Jackson off afterwards, still inside him, watching Jackson’s face as he gets off: his wet, shiny mouth opening even wider as he moans, the hair that’s sticking to his forehead with sweat, the way his head sinks back into the pillows some more. Jinyoung pulls out, but doesn’t move from where he’s leaning over Jackson, just looking at him. Well-fucked is a good look on him, even better than his cocky smile when he first approached Jinyoung, even better than seeing him with the artificial red of that shot on his lips. Jinyoung can’t help but feel smug that he’s caused it, that he gets to see Jackson like this. Like this, he seems kind of soft around the edges, especially when he smiles at Jinyoung, wide and warm and hazy, in its way.

Jinyoung’s struck by the sudden urge to kiss him again, but – no. He won’t. Not now. Not when it isn’t leading up to anything like it was at the club or in the hallway or even immediately before they fucked. Not now that the sex is over and it won’t really be a part of that anymore, even though really, it’s barely over. He just can’t do that, even if right now, Jackson’s mouth somehow looks even more inviting than it ever has.

Instead, Jinyoung shifts around and lies back so he’s beside Jackson on the mattress. He chucks the condom away, but he can’t be bothered to shower. He doesn’t even care if Jackson does or not, even though Jackson’s got his own come drying on his stomach. The sheets should probably be washed soon, anyway. Jinyoung’s been putting that off for far too long and he knows it.

Jackson sits up a little more. Something about his expression, his body language, makes it seem like he’s unsure of whether he should stay or leave or even just get under the duvet. It’s the most awkward Jinyoung’s seen him, and Jinyoung wouldn’t exactly call _this_ a good look, but it’s still one that he feels slightly smug about. People like him don’t get to make people like Jackson feel this kind of casual unease; in Jinyoung’s experience, it’s always been the other way round. It’s probably a bad thing to be delighting in it – he doesn’t know Jackson, not properly, shouldn’t be letting Jackson represent all those people who surrounded him at seventeen, the ones who had him constantly on edge – but Jinyoung’s always been very into symbolism.

“You can stay,” he tells Jackson, and Jackson does.

 

 

At some point, Jinyoung sleeps. He opens his eyes slowly, and turns over in bed so he isn’t facing the nearest wall. Last night comes back to him: the club, the shots, the dancing, the sex, Jackson.

Jackson isn’t in bed with him, though, isn’t even in the room. His clothes are still there, strewn out across the floor just as they were last night. Even his boxers are still there, exactly where Jinyoung remembers them being. Before heading off to see where Jackson might be, Jinyoung throws on the first clean underwear he finds: while he’d like to maintain some of his own dignity, he doesn’t want Jackson to feel _too_ underdressed. (Or maybe he does. Just a bit.)

There isn’t much in his lounge. A bookcase, where his attempt to organise his novels and collections of poetry by author has long since been abandoned. A couch, bought second-hand when he first moved in, cushions strategically placed to hide the stains that won’t come out. A coffee table, slightly wobbly and covered in paper, its surface littered with rings left by coffee cups. He doesn’t own a television: if he wants to watch movies or dramas, he’ll use his laptop.

Then there’s his wall of words, the whole space covered in paper: lines of what’s supposed to be poetry that might one day fit in somewhere, scenes of stories that need to be edited. Jackson’s standing in front of it, still completely naked, shameless. He turns, as if he’s sensed that Jinyoung’s joined him in the room.

“I kind of expected to find paints and canvases out here,” Jackson says, gesturing around the room, not bothering with a real greeting, “but I guess this is what you meant by artist, huh?”

It’s exactly what Jinyoung meant. He nods, and Jackson turns his head back to look at the wall, at the mess of paper tacked up there. To somebody else, it probably looks completely and utterly disorganised, but Jinyoung can make sense of it. Most days, anyway. (Some days, he stares up at this wall and his whole mind seems to blur. Some days, he doesn’t know what he’s even doing altogether, why he does this instead of something that might actually stand a chance of getting him somewhere, why he even kids himself that it’s enjoyable.)

“So. You know what I do,” Jinyoung says, though really, with this in front of him, Jackson knows more than that. There’s so much of Jinyoung there in the words on the wall, his heart and soul laid bare for Jackson to see in just one fragmented line, just as exposed as Jackson’s body is because he’s naked, just in a different way. He wonders if Jackson’s bothering to figure out what any of it could mean beyond just the words themselves. If Jackson’s bothering to even try and dive beneath the surface. “What about you?”

“I’m an athlete,” Jackson says simply, and yeah, that makes sense. That body, that stamina. That look of determination about him. “Fencing.”

Jinyoung nods again, considering.

“Interesting,” he says, because it is. Knowing that, everything seems to fit together, somehow. He feels like he’s been right about Jackson, in a way, but at least Jackson gets to do his sport now, Jinyoung supposes. Not like so many others who must have excelled at one when it seemed to matter more than anything but then school ended and it turned out that they weren’t quite good enough to cut it. Jackson’s a professional, and that word probably holds more weight in his field than it does when Jinyoung has to tell people that he’s a professional writer. Jinyoung’s more impressed than he might have been before.

“Sure,” says Jackson, so casual, like the word’s a shrug. “Can I, uh, can I use your shower?”

Jinyoung shows him to the bathroom, gives directions on switching the shower on and changing the temperature, and then makes his way to the kitchen for coffee. He makes a whole pot under the pretence of drinking it throughout the day, but there’s a cup for Jackson if he wants it.

He stands in the lounge, in front of his words, sipping at his drink. It’s just a bit too hot, but it’s something to do. He asks if Jackson wants a cup when he comes back, and he takes the offer. Jackson’s dressed, back in last night’s clothes, and his hair is damp from the shower. Now, Jinyoung’s the one who feels underdressed. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like feeling vulnerable, exposed. Especially not in the simplest of ways like this, ways that are visual, ways that other people can understand.

They stand in silence, the only sounds the occasional sip of coffee and the drip-drip-drip of the tap in the kitchen until Jackson speaks.

“Hey.” He cocks his head towards the wall. “Would you let me write something up there?”

Jinyoung frowns: this isn’t something he’s ever let happen before. Not that anyone’s ever asked. He wants to see what Jackson does, though, because really, he’s still observing him. Still figuring him out. He finds a pen; there’s already enough paper on the wall for Jackson to work with, whatever he thinks he’s doing.

Rather than words, Jackson writes out some numbers – a phone number. Jinyoung suppresses his eye roll, as well as the fact that he’s secretly rather pleased. Pleased that Jackson would want to see him again, if nothing else.

“Call me, if you want. Or text. I had a good time last night.”

Jinyoung has to agree. He had a good time, too.

“Maybe I will,” he says, and he means it. He might just do that.

He sees Jackson out of the door, still feeling underdressed even as the door closes and he’s left alone in the apartment with nobody to see him.

Jinyoung could never count up how many books he’s read in his life, how many are in his apartment, wouldn’t even want to begin counting the ones that are in his bookcase. There are so many, and some of them are so different, and sure, _maybe_ he can get condescending about books a lot, but he doesn’t judge them by their covers. Only their contents, what he finds when he opens them up and turns their pages and explores their worlds for himself. The least he can do, probably, is to actually apply that philosophy to real people and real life.

Jackson might just be the place to start.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading, everyone!! i can be found on tumblr @ vibetechs as always, and now also on twitter @gotsevenses


End file.
